Say You'll Wait (You'll Wait for Me) Part 2/2
Part 1/2
Present day
The revival of the Angel happened just like the first time and every time since, the briefest touch of Dean’s finger brought a wave of warmth and life flooding over Castiel’s body.
The Angel Castiel gasped awake. His hands flew to his throat where the fatal blow had landed, and where now a 4 point star rests neatly on the hollow of his throat.
Rapidly, he took in the situation, eyes searching out Dean’s, wide in horror. “What have you done?”
“You mind if I explain later?” Dean replied tersely, “We have a bit of a situation right now.”
As he rose, Castiel evaluated the room. The Angels had been stunned silent, but were still poised to attack. It’d only be a matter of time before they remembered the task at hand.
“We must leave, now.” Castiel said and he extended his hand towards Dean, fingers outstretched in an unconscious copy of Dean’s not even a minute before.
“Wait!” Dean danced out of his reach.
“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Zachariah interrupted with a shake of his head. “It seems that you’ve been keeping secrets from us.” Casually, he paced in a half circle around them, idly twirling the bloodied angel blade in his hand, but the narrowness in this eyes gave him away.
“You like that?” Dean grinned, tracking Zachariah’s progress across the room. On his periphery, he was aware of Castiel shifting nervously, but he trusted the Angel to hold until his signal.
Zachariah’s lip curled in disgust. “Your parlour tricks are of little interest to me. I’ll just kill him again. And then when you give yourself over to Lucifer, he’ll get to know all your little nuances, right before he fries them out of your head.”
From behind him, Dean felt more than he saw Castiel bristle at his words.
Keeping his eyes on Zachariah, Castiel growled, “Please Dean. We need to go.” He made another attempt to catch his sleeve.
“Please Dean.” Zachariah simpered, mockingly. “Castiel, oh how far you’ve fallen. You should have stayed dead, rather than this farce. Whoring yourself out to these mud monkeys as if it will make any difference in the end.”
Dean had dodged back, expression hardening, “Wait just one damn minute Cas. Trust me.”
Visibly on edge, Castiel was barely able to stay still as Dean and Zachariah squared off.
“Better listen to your master, Cas. Next time, I’m going to take your head right off and see what your precious mud monkey can do about that.”
“You need to shut your piehole.”
“Are you going to make me?” Zachariah laughed. “Everything’s been set in motion. Got all my dominoes laid out while you two were dicking around with inconsequential seals. Now it’s just a matter of time before Lucifer is free from his cage and you, my dear Dean, will be heading straight back to hell.”
During Zachariah’s grandstanding, Dean’s eyes flickered to his watch and what he saw made him grin, teeth bared and feral. “I’ll race you there.”
The minute ticked over, and in a sudden righting of the cosmos, Zachariah died in a flash of white light.
Dean lowered the arm he’d thrown over his eyes. Crowing triumphantly, he addressed the rest of the room, hands thrown out to his sides, “Who wants to see that again?”
The angels fled.
Only Castiel was left, frozen in disbelief. “How is this possible?”
“I promise, I can explain. But we need to get out before they come back with reinforcements.”
Upon Dean’s insistence, they fled on foot, Dean backing up cautiously as Castiel passed him out the door. In his wake is the faint smell of ozone.
**
"How did this happened?" Castiel demanded, his eyes fixed in his usual flat stare, but there was something behind them now, something that wasn’t there before and Dean frowned - Castiel was nervous. No, Dean realized as he watched Castiel’s eyes flicker down to Dean‘s hands are resting on the worn formica table, he was afraid.
They’re tucked into the corner near the emergency escape, away from the late night customers. It’s habit by now to order two cups of coffee, even though one is always left to go cold. Castiel sat across from Dean under the harsh lights of the diner, hands wrapped around a coffee cup in a mirror of Dean’s position. He leaned in, voice low and urgent, “How did you bring me back?”
"I have no idea.” Sensing Castiel’s agitation, Dean added, “I swear, this whole bringing people back from the dead just started out of the blue one day and it's been like that ever since."
“How long does it last?” Castiel asked in a voice that coming from anyone else, would be borderline hysterical. Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but it unnerved him to see Castiel like this. He was visibly spooked, sweeping the diner back and forth for threats. The whole time he’d known him, Dean hasn’t seen Castiel as anything but collected and detached. Briefly, he wondered if it was a side effect of being brought back, or just evidence that not even angels can keep their cool after being brought back from the dead with a giant hole in their neck.
Speaking of which, “You should really look into a scarf or something.”
“Dean!”
Dean threw his hands up. “Look, I really don’t know. I don’t know if there‘s an expiry date. I never tested it out before. All I know is that you’ll stay alive until I touch you again.”
Castiel’s hand noticeably twitched around the coffee cup, an aborted effort to touch the his neck. “Will the wound heal?”
“No. No healing.” Dean’s gaze was drawn up to where Castiel’s coat was pulled up tight around his neck. Castiel had cleaned up the blood as best he could, but the stab wound itself is ugly and gaping, a constant reminder of the danger they were in. “Everyone comes back exactly how they were when they died. Nothing gets fixed, they’re just … not dead anymore.”
Silence fell as Castiel digested the information and Dean let his mind wander. This was the longest he had left anything alive after revival and a small part of him is terrified that he brought Castiel back wrong. Forcefully, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
His musings go unnoticed by Castiel, who’s busy with his own thoughts. He muttered, “This makes no sense. There’s no precedent of this anywhere in history.”
“Hey, don’t look at me. It’s been two years and I still have no clue what’s going on.”
"Two years -” His attention caught, Castiel narrowed in on Dean. “The death of your brother. Is that when it started?”
Dean swallowed, his face tight. “Something like that, yeah.”
"What do you remember?"
"Nothing much."
That was a lie.
Dean remembered everything about Sam's death.
In fact, even 2 years later, Dean could vividly recall every detail of his brother's death, having spent every day reliving it in his head. Remembering how long it took him to leave his brother's side, thinking that maybe this time, maybe this touch would bring him back again. Remembering how it took him until the middle of the might to dig both graves. Remembering how the blisters broke open on the palm of his hand and blood ran down the handle as he took slow shovelfuls out one by one only to replace them again. Remembered the coolness of the fall air, the way the half moon shone through the trees. The damp decaying smell of the soil and the saltiness of his tears.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried. Searched ever book that Bobby had. Every library I passed through. Scourged the internet. There's no mention of this, not even a hint anywhere. After a while, I just stopped wondering.” For a moment, Dean fell silent, and his next words were quieter, “Doesn‘t matter. It won‘t bring Sam back anyway."
“But how did you know?” Castiel pressed, “How did you know the death would transfer to Zachariah instead?”
For a moment, Dean lost himself in Cold Oak. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared over Castiel‘s shoulder at the ugly red vinyl of the booth. It’s getting worn, faded, and Dean can see where it’s cracked at the stress points. He twitched a shoulder, “Figured it out the hard way.“ There‘s a hint of something that Castiel can’t quiet read before it‘s shuttered away and Dean focused back on his coffee with singular purpose.
And Castiel may still have much to learn about humans, but he’s learned enough about Dean to know that that’s the end of that conversation.
*
That night, Dean asked for two doubles at the motel, which brought an unexpected twinge in him. He fought it down with a practised hand and paid for the room. Out of habit, he claimed the bed closest to the door and let Castiel have the first shower, even though he wasn't really sure if angels even take showers.
Castiel stayed that night laying curled loosely on his side, a human sized question mark under the sheets. The first time he tried to leave, the effort left him gasping on his hands and knees, blood running unchecked from his nose and Dean trying desperately not to run to his side. He didn’t try again.
It seemed that once your grace was shattered, just coming back to life wouldn’t gather it together again. So Castiel was left to salvage whatever shards of his grace he could reach and as a result, his powers had been reduced to a sad trickle of what they used to be. Needless to say, Castiel is a little unnerved. He responded by sticking to Dean even closer than ever, despite Dean's multiple explanations of the third clause of his gift.
In lieu of Angel transport, they drive. Dean insisted that Castiel sat in the backseat. It made him feel like a taxi driver, but it was better than the alternative.
He told Castiel that it was just to be safe. That he could accidentally touch him.
That was a lie.
In truth, Dean could not stand the thought of anyone taking Sam's place beside him. It would crush the faint, irrational hope that one day Sam would come back, and they would once again be SamandDean and argue about music and directions and the heat and the windows and restaurants, and well you get the idea. Dean knew full well that it was completely irrational, but it was that hope that had carried him through. That had driven him to bury Sam’s body and not burn it. Now every time Dean looked in the rear view mirror and saw Castiel, he was reminded of the gaping hole next to him. Those first few trips, Dean cranked the music up a lot.
**
During the day, Castiel was able to clamp down on his emotions, distracted by the people around him and by talking and completing tasks. It was at night that he couldn’t ignore it, and the emotions came washing over him with little control, unchecked and complicated, filling him up until he thought he would burst. It was the nights Castiel felt the silence like a physical blow, the loss of the voices of his brothers and sisters weighing him down with immovable force.
In the middle of the night he laid shivering and aching and miserable. After years of watching, he now understood acutely what regret felt like. It panicked him, a swell that started in the pit of his stomach and crept steadily into his chest until he was gasping for breath. He clutched at his skin, wanting nothing more than to rip these feelings out where they pressed into him, turning his insides into a riot of panic and twists.
The sweat poured off his body, cold and clammy, soaking into the sheets and plastering his hair to his head. It ran into his eyes until it stung and Castiel swallowed back a scream, pressing his fist to his mouth, terrified and wanting out of this body, wanting to hear the host again, wanting to hear the song of the heavenly chorus. He prayed for this to be over soon but knew it would never end.
He tried to be quiet, but Dean woke anyway. He shifted to the edge of Castiel’s bed, elbows braced against his knees. “You want to talk?” He asked hesitantly in a sleep worn voice.
Castiel twisted away from Dean, embarrassed. He stared at the wall as he asked, “How can you stand it?”
“It gets easier.” Dean‘s smile was crooked and failed to reach his eyes. He placed his hand on Castiel’s leg, the thin scratchy blanket the difference between life and death. “Just take one breath at a time.”
Castiel clung on to that warmth and solid presence of Dean, used it to tether himself precariously to the present, to this time and this place. He took a slow shaky breath. Another. One more breath and he just needed to get through it, Castiel thought, and watched as the years stretched impossibly long before him.
**
In the morning, they packed up and left. Neither Dean nor Castiel made any mention of the night before and the silence was just another thing they stowed in between them as they drove down the dusty California highway.
Dean rolled down all the windows of the car in deference to the desert heat and the wind came roaring through the windows, loud and unchecked. As they drove, Dean smoked his way steadily through a pack, ignoring the way the wind snatched at the short tips of his hair.
Castiel, buffeted from all sides, shouted at Dean over the wind “Is this really necessary?“
Caching sight of Cas, who looked all sorts of bewildered, Dean laughed, tossed the last of his cigarette out the window, then gripped the wheel tightly. He floored it, the engine roaring instantly in response and they flew over the pavement.
“Come on, Cas.” Dean shouted, “Live a little. I‘ll give you a hint. This is what we call fun. You know, like we’re flying again.”
And Castiel, who was trying valiantly to stop his tie from flapping in his face, looked a little put off by the comment.
Dean made a face. “Just give it a try.”
Castiel finally wrestled his tie off and tucked it safely under the seat. He shook his head, “It’s not quite the same.” But when he looked out the window at the brilliant splash of colour, felt the blast of warm desert air over his arm, he paused. He sneaked a glance over at Dean, took in the ease in his posture, the relaxed arm slung over of the window frame.
He took a slow, measured breath of the moving air and felt the muscles in his face tug involuntarily, a leftover memory from his vessel and the ever present tightness in his chest uncoiled, just a little. Tentatively, he settled back, let the wind wash over him as Dean opened her up and they speed across the blacktop.
*
The Angels had gone radio silent. After the incident, it seemed that both sides had retreated to lick their wounds and so Dean and Castiel had been hit dead ends for weeks. Without Castiel’s angel connections, they no longer had the inside track on seals that need protecting. So for lack of better options, the pair resumed Dean’s previous activities. Namely saving people, hunting things.
The only difference now is that Dean had an angel trailing his every step, which was only slightly less annoying than having an angel pop in on him every once in a while. At least now, Dean didn't have to worry about him surprising him in the shower.
Generally, the two worked together well and were mostly in agreement when it came to cases. There was an unspoken agreement to not talk about the events that had passed, however it was on a particular case in Modesto, California, faced with 3 victims, no leads, and no suspects, that Castiel logically pointed out that Dean could ask one of the victims.
Immediately, Dean refused, even the mere suggestion had set him on edge. He’d brought back a totally of two people in all the years he’d had this curse and neither incident had turned out terrible well. Every time he thought about bringing someone else back, it sent him back to that early May day in Cold Oak, back to memories he didn‘t want to revisit.
Still, Castiel pushed, and the argument came to a head later that night.
“It’s not a discussion, Cas. I won’t do it.” Dean repeated without looking up from the gun he was cleaning. He had his array spread over the bed sheets and was carefully working his way through it when Castiel brought up the idea again.
Castiel pursed his lips, and Dean resisted the urge to tell him he looked like a 9 year old who’d been denied a cookie. “Dean, there are no other leads. Your gift can be extremely valuable.”
“Curse.”
"It's not a curse. It's a gift"
Dean snorted.
"It's true. Every moment with you, every second that we get that we didn't have before is a gift. Dean, you can do something that no one else can do. Think of all the people you can help, all the people you can save.
"All you can think about is how your life is surrounded by loss. But think about how you can surround it with life. One minute for each victim, for each person you reach. An extra minute of life, to find a killer, to get justice."
If he could touch him, Dean‘s pretty sure he would have punched Castiel by now. "Yeah an extra minute to see my face. Real great gift." He scoffed, "You’re telling me that you’re glad I brought you back? That you like being a human, being cut off from all your brothers and sisters? And I bet it’d be a real gift to spend every night like you did last night, waiting for your emotions to suffocate you. That you like being lonely, and scared, and confused, and hurt. We are up shit creek right now, and it‘s my gift” Dean raised his voice until he was half shouting, “That started the whole ball rolling.”
“What is it,” Castiel asked suddenly, and it was the weight, the curiosity lining his voice that cut through Dean’s rant. “That scares you so much?”
Reflexively, Dean tightened his grip on his gun. But he wouldn’t need his gun to kill someone, he’d already proven that. Dean straightened his fingers, watched the gun drop to the bedspread, watched the tendons stretch and pull, shifting under his skin. Examined the tips of his fingers, the calluses, and the bitten nails. The dirt embedded underneath. In a fit of disgust, he swept all his weapons back into the duffel, tossing it off to the side.
Castiel said nothing, but his face softened in empathy. Dean can’t stand to look. He’d rather take that flat stare of his any day rather than this fucking pity.
“Dean,” he started, “Their deaths, they-”
“Don’t you fucking dare.“ Dean warned. “What? Are you going to try to tell me it wasn’t my fault? Tell me Cas, are you going to absolve me of my sins?” Dean sneered, the words like acid in his mouth, “Go ahead and tell me that an extra few minutes with my brother was worth all this. Lucifer. The fucking apocalypse. And then tell me that it was worth the life of the man I killed in his place.”
For this, Castiel had no reply.
Dean snorted “Yeah that’s what I thought.” He stalked out of the room, hand on the doorknob knuckled white, and slammed the door as he left.
*
It turned out Castiel was even more terrible at research than Dean.
On the third day, another body appeared. College student, on the verge of graduation, found dead in his locked apartment. They found out at breakfast while eating scrambled eggs and planning the day’s search. The picture in the newspaper glared accusingly up at Dean from under a mop of unruly hair and Dean found himself frozen, unable to look away as the knot in his stomach tightened.
“Dean.” Castiel said, voice not unkind.
“Okay.” Dean said, words twisting in his throat. He tried to swallow, but couldn't and his words came out choked and quiet, “Okay, I‘ll do it.”
He insisted they prepared a plan before going to the morgue, every detail mapped out to a tee before they leave.
It was disgusting easy to sneak into the morgue. The kid they hired for security was asleep at the desk, drooling atop his study notes, and did nothing more than snuffle lightly as they walked past. Dean rolled his eyes and tucked the fake IDs away. He’d have to test out Agent Coulson and Agent Sitwell some other time.
The morgue air was chilly and thick with the smell of disinfectants and decomposition. Even through the suit, Dean could feel goosebumps rise, though he’s not entirely sure it’s one hundred percent due to the cold. He scanned the row of shelves until he found one labelled David Morrison in neatly typed letters and yanked it open.
The body on the slab was mostly cleaned up. Dean had long since gotten over any squeamishness he may have had while looking at morgue bodies, but it still struck him how different they looked from, for lack a better words, freshly dead bodies. This victim already had an autopsy, Dean noted with cool detachment as he followed the rows of thick black X’s marching down the Y-incision that was stark against his waxy skin. He’d already been cleaned and neatly arranged on the metal slab, his face slack and expressionless. It made him seem more removed somehow, more dead and gone than any of the monsters Dean’s put down.
Dean reached out a hand but stopped short, hovering hesitantly over the victim’s skin. The air suddenly felt thinner and he felt his chest tighten in response, heart beating a staccato rhythm against his ribs. His vision narrowed until all he could see was the victim’s pale skin and mentally he’s transported to another place, where he instantly knew the chill in the air and smell of dew on an early May morning. He didn’t know how long he stared, lost in a different time, until he heard Castiel mutter his name from behind him.
“Shit.” Dean spat out and broke away, running a hand roughly through his hair. He paced back and forth, agitated. “I can’t do this, Cas. What if I bring him back wrong? What if I end up killing everyone in the building? What if-”
“Dean.” And Dean can hear everything Cas wasn’t saying. Lightly, Cas placed his hand on Dean’s arm where the warmth of his body seeped through the sleeve of his jacket. When Dean looked up, he saw nothing but trust. He wasn’t alone. Not this time.
The gesture reassured Dean enough for him to rein in his nerves. He stepped back up to the body and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
When he glanced one last time over his shoulder, Castiel held up the stopwatch and nodded curtly. He eyed Dean’s hand closely, ready to start at the first touch.
The second his finger touched the cold, dry skin, the body flooded to life. Dean backed up as the victim drew in that first deep breath and opened him eyes. They flickered around briefly before settling on Dean.
“What the hell?” The victim asked, bewildered.
Dean shook his head, “Not quite there yet, buddy. We’re kind of like a pit stop. We just need to know what killed you.”
“Killed - what? Oh my god, I’m dead?!”
“Our condolence on the loss of your life.” Castiel interrupted from behind Dean.
Dean nodded distractedly, “Yeah, yeah, sorry about the shitty deal. Now tell us what killed you.”
But the victim’s too busy examining his stitches to answer the question. “Holy shit, they sliced me open. I’ve got like ridges of stitches on my skin. This is fucking insane.”
“Hey!” Dean said, “Death. You. How?”
“Ummm,” The victim tried to think back, obviously still distracted by the marks on his chest, picking at the stitches where they curve into his abdomen.
Getting frustrated, Dean snapped his fingers twice directly in front of his face. “Come on bud, eyes on me. We’re trying to avenge your death here. I need you to concentrate.”
“I think it was a ghost.” The guy scrunched up his face in a way that would have made Dean laugh if he wasn't freaking terrified and they weren’t running out of time.
“Ghost, okay, we can work with that.”
“Yeah. That was some seriously weird shit.” The victim frowned, glancing between the two of them. “So what’s going to happen now? Should I be heading toward the light or something? What should I do?”
Dean shrugged, hands held up in the classic ‘fuck if I know‘ position. At a loss of words, Dean glanced at Cas for help.
Cas nodded sagely, “God has plans for all of us.”
Dean made a face, “Seriously. That’s all you got? Look, the guy’s dead - no offence man,- so it’s not like he can go out and start a charity.”
But the victim ignored Dean and focused intently on Castiel. “What plans? Do I get to go to heaven?”
Unfortunately Castiel’s attention is already back on his stopwatch. “Dean. 10 seconds.” He said.
“Shit!” Dean shouted at the victim, “Quick, the ghost! Who was the ghost?”
“I’m not sure.. I turn around and it was dark."
“5”
“I couldn’t tell”
“4”
“I think it was..”
“3”
“My ex, Laura”
“2”
And Dean practically screeched “go towards the light!” before he nearly sprained his finger jabbing him again. The effect was instantaneous and the victim whipped stiff as a board and fell back to the metal table with a tremendous clang.
“1”
Castiel clicked on the stopwatch and pocketed it neatly, nodding at Dean.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean braced his hands against the metal slab, drawing deep breaths and trying to steady the racing of his heart. “Okay.” He said more to himself than anything else. “We’re okay.”
Castiel agreed and said quite earnestly. “I think that went very well.”
Dean just glared.
**
It was nice having two people to dig a grave again. Admittedly, it was a little bit of a gong-show, Castiel having never used a shovel before. And then after a certain depth, trying to co-ordinate the two of them shovelling in the grave was impossible, especially with the whole touch and die clause hanging over their heads. So they took turns, which didn’t make it any faster, but it was nice having someone to chat with.
“I’d forgotten.” Dean said wistfully, rolling the flint of his Zippo back and forth over his jeans, “What it was like, not hunting alone.” It was the middle of the night and the sky kept threatening to pour, but Dean’s got a buzz under his skin, like one too many cups of coffee. After the morgue, he was feeling almost drunk with relief. Dean flexed his free hand in front of him and stared at it, watching the shadows play across his tendons in the firelight.
“You know, when he was little, Sam used to bitch like crazy at me and my dad for desecrating graves.” Dean surprised himself by saying out loud. “He knew we had to do it, but they went on and on about how wrong it was in school and Sam was convinced he had to save our immortal souls. The little shit used to bring his rosary and light candles when we were done.” He laughed, somewhat bitterly and waited for the familiar clench that always seized his heart and is both surprised and oddly dismayed when that didn’t happen. The only feeling is a distant longing which he suspected would never go away.
Castiel heaved another shovel of dirt topside and paused, propped up on the handle. “You miss your brother.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean drawled. “Me and Sammy…” Dean trailed off. And there it was, that phantom pain that made his rub a hand roughly across his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I miss him.” He was relieved to have finally said it, like a weight had been lifted off his chest and it hadn’t swallowed him whole, this raw gaping hole inside of him.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle in the distance, and a change in the air. Dean perked up. “Heads up,” he warned Castiel, “We got incoming.”
Castiel returned to digging with a renewed vigour while Dean scanned the graveyard. Without warning, an invisible force lifted Dean from his feet and sent him tumbling into the grave marker. He scrambled for footing again, swearing loudly.
“Dean!” Castiel called out and threw the box of salt at him. He snatched it out of the air and scattered it in the direction he came from. From the grave, he could see Castiel scraping the last of the dirt from the surface of the coffin. The air behind him displaced and the spirit appeared, arms raised and poised to attack.
Dean drove for the crowbar they had left next to the can of gasoline and screamed for Castiel to duck. When he dropped to the floor, Dean flung it into the grave, catching the spirit across the body and causing it to dissipate.
“Get out!” Dean yelled and leapt into the hole as soon as Castiel scrambled out. He grabbed the shovel Castiel left behind, reared up then heaved down hard, driving the tip of the shovel through the rotten wood of the coffin. Without turning, he caught the gasoline can and salt Castiel tossed him and upended them both onto the bones. His Zippo’s disappeared into the grass beyond where the spirit threw him, but Dean had a spare book of matches in his pocket. He didn’t bother pull up a match, just tore off the cover, ripped the book up the seam of his jeans and threw it down.
The coffin lit up with a faint whoosh, causing Dean to back up against the edge. He pulled himself out of the grave and onto the grass, dropping the shovel next to him and flopping over to lay on his back. He grinned at Castiel. He definitely counted this as a success. Despite all the craziness, neither of them have a concussion to show for it.
The girlfriend’s salted and burned, and they can finally wash their hands of this case. Dean sighed, inproportionally relieved that the hunt was over.
Castiel leaned over Dean, the rest of the supplies already collected in his hands. He offered a faint smile in return, and while it still looked a little strange on his face, Dean’s starting to get used to it.
Dean was perfectly content to lay on the grass. He opened his mouth to comment when the sky finally decided to open up and it started to pour.
Startled, Castiel automatically called up a thread of his grace, snapping a shield over their heads, and relieved when it didn’t send a shooting pain through his head. Around the invisible barrier, the rain curved down in little rivets through the air.
Dean sucked in a lungful of the fresh moisture laden air, felt the charge of the lighting as it forked through the sky, and grinned at Cas, the relief and adrenaline of the hunt melting into a barely contained giddiness.
And then maybe he should to take back the part he said about them not getting hit in the head, because as the thunder started to crack overhead, Dean was inexplicably seized with glee and he jumped up, hollering "Race you back to the car."
As Castiel looked on in bewilderment, Dean took off from under the barrier and into the downpour as the thunder cracked loudly enough to shake the ground. He flung his arms wide into the air and his shovel almost took the head off of a nearby monument as his long strides ate up the ground.
Castiel followed at a slower pace, and curious, he stepped out from his invisible shield and let it disappear behind him. Immediately, the wind and rain hit him, billowing in from the side and whipping his trench coat up and open, cracking out to the side in a pathetic mimic of his lost wings.
It soaked him to the bone in seconds and by the time he reached the car, Dean was already inside, the car started, and the light inside welcoming. Castiel climbed into the backseat, water dripping from every pore and stared at Dean. “That was unpleasant.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out someday.” Dean assured him, laughter in his eyes. Water glints off his lashes like a beacon and Castiel fixed on it, perplexed. Then Dean shook his head vigorously, spraying droplets everywhere. He wiped the water from his hands the best he could with the hem of his shirt, which was pretty ineffectual, but he didn‘t seem to mind. "Good to go?”
Cas spared a glance back at the graveyard and could almost make it out through the sheets of rain. He thought of the people they helped save today and allowed himself a small glow of satisfaction. “We’re good.”
*
They got back late and trudge, sopping wet and exhausted, into the hotel room. Earlier energy gone, Dean can’t even be bothered to take off his clothes before he collapsed onto the bed. He figured he could sleep on the other side tonight.
He turned his head to watch Cas, who was gingerly perched on the end of his mattress. Drops of water were still sliding down the back of his neck to disappear into his coat. A coat which, Dean noted with a frown, had definitely seen better days.
He pulled himself upright. “Hey, take off your coat.”
“Why?“ Castiel watched as Dean dug through his duffel. “No one is wounded.”
Dean stopped sorting though the needles in his sewing kit to stare incredulously at Castiel. “You know, sometimes I don’t know if I should laugh at you, or just cry at the sad excuse that is my life.”
“Crying will do nothing to change your life.” Castiel recited but still hadn’t taken off his trench coat. If anything, he’d drawn it around himself tighter.
It amused Dean to no end how someone with no understanding of the human race can be so attached to a coat. He brandished the thread and needle he pulled out. “Relax. I’m not getting rid of it, I’m just sewing up the rips. I didn’t know that angelic powers had included tailoring but it’s looking like you’re pretty lost without it. Seriously, you look like a hobo in that.”
“I did not think that my appearance would matter to you”
Dean made a face. “It doesn‘t. But I swear I saw someone try to give you money the other day.”
“It was very noble of her to attempt to help those less fortunate.” Castiel said solemnly but his smile is unexpectedly wry.
Dean laughed, surprising himself with the way it took him, the easy tug of seldom used muscles in his face. He surprised himself more when he realized the levity wasn’t overshadowed with the bitterness that had come with everything since Sam‘s death. He shook his head fondly at Cas. “Just give me the damn thing.”
**
Finally, they get a hit on Lucifer.
Lucifer is in, of all places, Detroit. Dean privately thought that was a bit of a letdown. He can think of plenty of places more hellish than Detroit. Cleveland for one. Or Toledo. Dean shuddered. Freaking Toledo.
The air was almost relieved as they packed the Impala. All these months of stumbling around in the dark, they finally have something they can sink their teeth into. Dean slammed the trunk shut with an air of finality, one hand rested on the sun-warmed metal as he looked over at Cas. “This is a really stupid plan.”
Castiel shrugged. “It should suffice for our needs.”
“Yeah, but I just thought I’d point out that it is in fact, a retarded plan.”
Castiel huffed a laugh. “It seemed pretty simple. If I keep killing, and you can keep up with that magic touch of yours, I’m sure the cosmos will eventually strike down Lucifer.”
“That is one pretty big maybe.”
“Have you a better plan?”
“For you and me against the legions of heaven and hell? Not one that doesn’t involve an army that we don‘t have. And possibly a couple of rocket launchers. Maybe an X-men or two.”
Castiel shook his head indulgently as he opened the door to get in the backseat. He made to get in, but Dean just tossed their bags through the door and jerked his head towards the front seat. Cas paused, but Dean pretended not to notice, dropping into the driver’s seat and starting the car.
Castiel took the moment to glance back at the motel room. Room 23 of the Motel 8 is on the outskirts of Modesto, California. It had crappy water pressure, lumpy beds, and questionable stains on the floor. The walls made creaking sounds when the neighbours got enthusiastic at night. Compared to the majesty of Heaven, actually compared to most places, the motel was a dump, but Castiel couldn’t stop the smile that stole across his face.
Dean leaned over the console. “You coming or not?”
“Of course.” Cas replied with a quick twitch of his lips.
Striving for the same nonchalance, Cas climbed into the passenger side. As he settled, he felt a flicker in his chest, lifting like the fizzy drinks that Dean liked so much. He sneaked a look at Dean, who’s gripped two-handed on the steering wheel, eyes resolutely forward. “We really doing this?”
Flipping through his box of cassettes, Castiel picked one and fed it into the dash. “Yeah, we are.”
Dean took a deep breath. “Ok. Onward Christian soldier, and all that crap.”
“Dean.” Castiel said, but warmly and when Dean turned to Castiel in the passenger seat, he saw the small gleam in his eyes. “Don’t forget to open the windows.”
Dean laughed, tension falling from his shoulders. He stepped on the gas and they take off, music cranked and wind whipping around. Cas all but threw his head out the window and closed his eyes and Dean’s just waiting for him to stick his tongue out and start panting. He nearly doubled over, laughing until his stomach hurt, barely keeping his hands on the steering wheel. His deadly hands, Dean remembered, and the thought was sobering. But maybe, he glanced at Castiel, maybe life as well. Life and redemption and seconds chances. Dean could definitely live with that.
So steadily, the Hunter and his Angel made their way towards Detroit. To Detroit, to Lucifer, and to what could possibly be the end of all days. Accompanied only by the rumble of the engine and the rhythmic churn of the tires, they fly across the blacktop.
~fin~
Present day
The revival of the Angel happened just like the first time and every time since, the briefest touch of Dean’s finger brought a wave of warmth and life flooding over Castiel’s body.
The Angel Castiel gasped awake. His hands flew to his throat where the fatal blow had landed, and where now a 4 point star rests neatly on the hollow of his throat.
Rapidly, he took in the situation, eyes searching out Dean’s, wide in horror. “What have you done?”
“You mind if I explain later?” Dean replied tersely, “We have a bit of a situation right now.”
As he rose, Castiel evaluated the room. The Angels had been stunned silent, but were still poised to attack. It’d only be a matter of time before they remembered the task at hand.
“We must leave, now.” Castiel said and he extended his hand towards Dean, fingers outstretched in an unconscious copy of Dean’s not even a minute before.
“Wait!” Dean danced out of his reach.
“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Zachariah interrupted with a shake of his head. “It seems that you’ve been keeping secrets from us.” Casually, he paced in a half circle around them, idly twirling the bloodied angel blade in his hand, but the narrowness in this eyes gave him away.
“You like that?” Dean grinned, tracking Zachariah’s progress across the room. On his periphery, he was aware of Castiel shifting nervously, but he trusted the Angel to hold until his signal.
Zachariah’s lip curled in disgust. “Your parlour tricks are of little interest to me. I’ll just kill him again. And then when you give yourself over to Lucifer, he’ll get to know all your little nuances, right before he fries them out of your head.”
From behind him, Dean felt more than he saw Castiel bristle at his words.
Keeping his eyes on Zachariah, Castiel growled, “Please Dean. We need to go.” He made another attempt to catch his sleeve.
“Please Dean.” Zachariah simpered, mockingly. “Castiel, oh how far you’ve fallen. You should have stayed dead, rather than this farce. Whoring yourself out to these mud monkeys as if it will make any difference in the end.”
Dean had dodged back, expression hardening, “Wait just one damn minute Cas. Trust me.”
Visibly on edge, Castiel was barely able to stay still as Dean and Zachariah squared off.
“Better listen to your master, Cas. Next time, I’m going to take your head right off and see what your precious mud monkey can do about that.”
“You need to shut your piehole.”
“Are you going to make me?” Zachariah laughed. “Everything’s been set in motion. Got all my dominoes laid out while you two were dicking around with inconsequential seals. Now it’s just a matter of time before Lucifer is free from his cage and you, my dear Dean, will be heading straight back to hell.”
During Zachariah’s grandstanding, Dean’s eyes flickered to his watch and what he saw made him grin, teeth bared and feral. “I’ll race you there.”
The minute ticked over, and in a sudden righting of the cosmos, Zachariah died in a flash of white light.
Dean lowered the arm he’d thrown over his eyes. Crowing triumphantly, he addressed the rest of the room, hands thrown out to his sides, “Who wants to see that again?”
The angels fled.
Only Castiel was left, frozen in disbelief. “How is this possible?”
“I promise, I can explain. But we need to get out before they come back with reinforcements.”
Upon Dean’s insistence, they fled on foot, Dean backing up cautiously as Castiel passed him out the door. In his wake is the faint smell of ozone.
**
"How did this happened?" Castiel demanded, his eyes fixed in his usual flat stare, but there was something behind them now, something that wasn’t there before and Dean frowned - Castiel was nervous. No, Dean realized as he watched Castiel’s eyes flicker down to Dean‘s hands are resting on the worn formica table, he was afraid.
They’re tucked into the corner near the emergency escape, away from the late night customers. It’s habit by now to order two cups of coffee, even though one is always left to go cold. Castiel sat across from Dean under the harsh lights of the diner, hands wrapped around a coffee cup in a mirror of Dean’s position. He leaned in, voice low and urgent, “How did you bring me back?”
"I have no idea.” Sensing Castiel’s agitation, Dean added, “I swear, this whole bringing people back from the dead just started out of the blue one day and it's been like that ever since."
“How long does it last?” Castiel asked in a voice that coming from anyone else, would be borderline hysterical. Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but it unnerved him to see Castiel like this. He was visibly spooked, sweeping the diner back and forth for threats. The whole time he’d known him, Dean hasn’t seen Castiel as anything but collected and detached. Briefly, he wondered if it was a side effect of being brought back, or just evidence that not even angels can keep their cool after being brought back from the dead with a giant hole in their neck.
Speaking of which, “You should really look into a scarf or something.”
“Dean!”
Dean threw his hands up. “Look, I really don’t know. I don’t know if there‘s an expiry date. I never tested it out before. All I know is that you’ll stay alive until I touch you again.”
Castiel’s hand noticeably twitched around the coffee cup, an aborted effort to touch the his neck. “Will the wound heal?”
“No. No healing.” Dean’s gaze was drawn up to where Castiel’s coat was pulled up tight around his neck. Castiel had cleaned up the blood as best he could, but the stab wound itself is ugly and gaping, a constant reminder of the danger they were in. “Everyone comes back exactly how they were when they died. Nothing gets fixed, they’re just … not dead anymore.”
Silence fell as Castiel digested the information and Dean let his mind wander. This was the longest he had left anything alive after revival and a small part of him is terrified that he brought Castiel back wrong. Forcefully, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
His musings go unnoticed by Castiel, who’s busy with his own thoughts. He muttered, “This makes no sense. There’s no precedent of this anywhere in history.”
“Hey, don’t look at me. It’s been two years and I still have no clue what’s going on.”
"Two years -” His attention caught, Castiel narrowed in on Dean. “The death of your brother. Is that when it started?”
Dean swallowed, his face tight. “Something like that, yeah.”
"What do you remember?"
"Nothing much."
That was a lie.
Dean remembered everything about Sam's death.
In fact, even 2 years later, Dean could vividly recall every detail of his brother's death, having spent every day reliving it in his head. Remembering how long it took him to leave his brother's side, thinking that maybe this time, maybe this touch would bring him back again. Remembering how it took him until the middle of the might to dig both graves. Remembering how the blisters broke open on the palm of his hand and blood ran down the handle as he took slow shovelfuls out one by one only to replace them again. Remembered the coolness of the fall air, the way the half moon shone through the trees. The damp decaying smell of the soil and the saltiness of his tears.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried. Searched ever book that Bobby had. Every library I passed through. Scourged the internet. There's no mention of this, not even a hint anywhere. After a while, I just stopped wondering.” For a moment, Dean fell silent, and his next words were quieter, “Doesn‘t matter. It won‘t bring Sam back anyway."
“But how did you know?” Castiel pressed, “How did you know the death would transfer to Zachariah instead?”
For a moment, Dean lost himself in Cold Oak. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared over Castiel‘s shoulder at the ugly red vinyl of the booth. It’s getting worn, faded, and Dean can see where it’s cracked at the stress points. He twitched a shoulder, “Figured it out the hard way.“ There‘s a hint of something that Castiel can’t quiet read before it‘s shuttered away and Dean focused back on his coffee with singular purpose.
And Castiel may still have much to learn about humans, but he’s learned enough about Dean to know that that’s the end of that conversation.
*
That night, Dean asked for two doubles at the motel, which brought an unexpected twinge in him. He fought it down with a practised hand and paid for the room. Out of habit, he claimed the bed closest to the door and let Castiel have the first shower, even though he wasn't really sure if angels even take showers.
Castiel stayed that night laying curled loosely on his side, a human sized question mark under the sheets. The first time he tried to leave, the effort left him gasping on his hands and knees, blood running unchecked from his nose and Dean trying desperately not to run to his side. He didn’t try again.
It seemed that once your grace was shattered, just coming back to life wouldn’t gather it together again. So Castiel was left to salvage whatever shards of his grace he could reach and as a result, his powers had been reduced to a sad trickle of what they used to be. Needless to say, Castiel is a little unnerved. He responded by sticking to Dean even closer than ever, despite Dean's multiple explanations of the third clause of his gift.
In lieu of Angel transport, they drive. Dean insisted that Castiel sat in the backseat. It made him feel like a taxi driver, but it was better than the alternative.
He told Castiel that it was just to be safe. That he could accidentally touch him.
That was a lie.
In truth, Dean could not stand the thought of anyone taking Sam's place beside him. It would crush the faint, irrational hope that one day Sam would come back, and they would once again be SamandDean and argue about music and directions and the heat and the windows and restaurants, and well you get the idea. Dean knew full well that it was completely irrational, but it was that hope that had carried him through. That had driven him to bury Sam’s body and not burn it. Now every time Dean looked in the rear view mirror and saw Castiel, he was reminded of the gaping hole next to him. Those first few trips, Dean cranked the music up a lot.
**
During the day, Castiel was able to clamp down on his emotions, distracted by the people around him and by talking and completing tasks. It was at night that he couldn’t ignore it, and the emotions came washing over him with little control, unchecked and complicated, filling him up until he thought he would burst. It was the nights Castiel felt the silence like a physical blow, the loss of the voices of his brothers and sisters weighing him down with immovable force.
In the middle of the night he laid shivering and aching and miserable. After years of watching, he now understood acutely what regret felt like. It panicked him, a swell that started in the pit of his stomach and crept steadily into his chest until he was gasping for breath. He clutched at his skin, wanting nothing more than to rip these feelings out where they pressed into him, turning his insides into a riot of panic and twists.
The sweat poured off his body, cold and clammy, soaking into the sheets and plastering his hair to his head. It ran into his eyes until it stung and Castiel swallowed back a scream, pressing his fist to his mouth, terrified and wanting out of this body, wanting to hear the host again, wanting to hear the song of the heavenly chorus. He prayed for this to be over soon but knew it would never end.
He tried to be quiet, but Dean woke anyway. He shifted to the edge of Castiel’s bed, elbows braced against his knees. “You want to talk?” He asked hesitantly in a sleep worn voice.
Castiel twisted away from Dean, embarrassed. He stared at the wall as he asked, “How can you stand it?”
“It gets easier.” Dean‘s smile was crooked and failed to reach his eyes. He placed his hand on Castiel’s leg, the thin scratchy blanket the difference between life and death. “Just take one breath at a time.”
Castiel clung on to that warmth and solid presence of Dean, used it to tether himself precariously to the present, to this time and this place. He took a slow shaky breath. Another. One more breath and he just needed to get through it, Castiel thought, and watched as the years stretched impossibly long before him.
**
In the morning, they packed up and left. Neither Dean nor Castiel made any mention of the night before and the silence was just another thing they stowed in between them as they drove down the dusty California highway.
Dean rolled down all the windows of the car in deference to the desert heat and the wind came roaring through the windows, loud and unchecked. As they drove, Dean smoked his way steadily through a pack, ignoring the way the wind snatched at the short tips of his hair.
Castiel, buffeted from all sides, shouted at Dean over the wind “Is this really necessary?“
Caching sight of Cas, who looked all sorts of bewildered, Dean laughed, tossed the last of his cigarette out the window, then gripped the wheel tightly. He floored it, the engine roaring instantly in response and they flew over the pavement.
“Come on, Cas.” Dean shouted, “Live a little. I‘ll give you a hint. This is what we call fun. You know, like we’re flying again.”
And Castiel, who was trying valiantly to stop his tie from flapping in his face, looked a little put off by the comment.
Dean made a face. “Just give it a try.”
Castiel finally wrestled his tie off and tucked it safely under the seat. He shook his head, “It’s not quite the same.” But when he looked out the window at the brilliant splash of colour, felt the blast of warm desert air over his arm, he paused. He sneaked a glance over at Dean, took in the ease in his posture, the relaxed arm slung over of the window frame.
He took a slow, measured breath of the moving air and felt the muscles in his face tug involuntarily, a leftover memory from his vessel and the ever present tightness in his chest uncoiled, just a little. Tentatively, he settled back, let the wind wash over him as Dean opened her up and they speed across the blacktop.
*
The Angels had gone radio silent. After the incident, it seemed that both sides had retreated to lick their wounds and so Dean and Castiel had been hit dead ends for weeks. Without Castiel’s angel connections, they no longer had the inside track on seals that need protecting. So for lack of better options, the pair resumed Dean’s previous activities. Namely saving people, hunting things.
The only difference now is that Dean had an angel trailing his every step, which was only slightly less annoying than having an angel pop in on him every once in a while. At least now, Dean didn't have to worry about him surprising him in the shower.
Generally, the two worked together well and were mostly in agreement when it came to cases. There was an unspoken agreement to not talk about the events that had passed, however it was on a particular case in Modesto, California, faced with 3 victims, no leads, and no suspects, that Castiel logically pointed out that Dean could ask one of the victims.
Immediately, Dean refused, even the mere suggestion had set him on edge. He’d brought back a totally of two people in all the years he’d had this curse and neither incident had turned out terrible well. Every time he thought about bringing someone else back, it sent him back to that early May day in Cold Oak, back to memories he didn‘t want to revisit.
Still, Castiel pushed, and the argument came to a head later that night.
“It’s not a discussion, Cas. I won’t do it.” Dean repeated without looking up from the gun he was cleaning. He had his array spread over the bed sheets and was carefully working his way through it when Castiel brought up the idea again.
Castiel pursed his lips, and Dean resisted the urge to tell him he looked like a 9 year old who’d been denied a cookie. “Dean, there are no other leads. Your gift can be extremely valuable.”
“Curse.”
"It's not a curse. It's a gift"
Dean snorted.
"It's true. Every moment with you, every second that we get that we didn't have before is a gift. Dean, you can do something that no one else can do. Think of all the people you can help, all the people you can save.
"All you can think about is how your life is surrounded by loss. But think about how you can surround it with life. One minute for each victim, for each person you reach. An extra minute of life, to find a killer, to get justice."
If he could touch him, Dean‘s pretty sure he would have punched Castiel by now. "Yeah an extra minute to see my face. Real great gift." He scoffed, "You’re telling me that you’re glad I brought you back? That you like being a human, being cut off from all your brothers and sisters? And I bet it’d be a real gift to spend every night like you did last night, waiting for your emotions to suffocate you. That you like being lonely, and scared, and confused, and hurt. We are up shit creek right now, and it‘s my gift” Dean raised his voice until he was half shouting, “That started the whole ball rolling.”
“What is it,” Castiel asked suddenly, and it was the weight, the curiosity lining his voice that cut through Dean’s rant. “That scares you so much?”
Reflexively, Dean tightened his grip on his gun. But he wouldn’t need his gun to kill someone, he’d already proven that. Dean straightened his fingers, watched the gun drop to the bedspread, watched the tendons stretch and pull, shifting under his skin. Examined the tips of his fingers, the calluses, and the bitten nails. The dirt embedded underneath. In a fit of disgust, he swept all his weapons back into the duffel, tossing it off to the side.
Castiel said nothing, but his face softened in empathy. Dean can’t stand to look. He’d rather take that flat stare of his any day rather than this fucking pity.
“Dean,” he started, “Their deaths, they-”
“Don’t you fucking dare.“ Dean warned. “What? Are you going to try to tell me it wasn’t my fault? Tell me Cas, are you going to absolve me of my sins?” Dean sneered, the words like acid in his mouth, “Go ahead and tell me that an extra few minutes with my brother was worth all this. Lucifer. The fucking apocalypse. And then tell me that it was worth the life of the man I killed in his place.”
For this, Castiel had no reply.
Dean snorted “Yeah that’s what I thought.” He stalked out of the room, hand on the doorknob knuckled white, and slammed the door as he left.
*
It turned out Castiel was even more terrible at research than Dean.
On the third day, another body appeared. College student, on the verge of graduation, found dead in his locked apartment. They found out at breakfast while eating scrambled eggs and planning the day’s search. The picture in the newspaper glared accusingly up at Dean from under a mop of unruly hair and Dean found himself frozen, unable to look away as the knot in his stomach tightened.
“Dean.” Castiel said, voice not unkind.
“Okay.” Dean said, words twisting in his throat. He tried to swallow, but couldn't and his words came out choked and quiet, “Okay, I‘ll do it.”
He insisted they prepared a plan before going to the morgue, every detail mapped out to a tee before they leave.
It was disgusting easy to sneak into the morgue. The kid they hired for security was asleep at the desk, drooling atop his study notes, and did nothing more than snuffle lightly as they walked past. Dean rolled his eyes and tucked the fake IDs away. He’d have to test out Agent Coulson and Agent Sitwell some other time.
The morgue air was chilly and thick with the smell of disinfectants and decomposition. Even through the suit, Dean could feel goosebumps rise, though he’s not entirely sure it’s one hundred percent due to the cold. He scanned the row of shelves until he found one labelled David Morrison in neatly typed letters and yanked it open.
The body on the slab was mostly cleaned up. Dean had long since gotten over any squeamishness he may have had while looking at morgue bodies, but it still struck him how different they looked from, for lack a better words, freshly dead bodies. This victim already had an autopsy, Dean noted with cool detachment as he followed the rows of thick black X’s marching down the Y-incision that was stark against his waxy skin. He’d already been cleaned and neatly arranged on the metal slab, his face slack and expressionless. It made him seem more removed somehow, more dead and gone than any of the monsters Dean’s put down.
Dean reached out a hand but stopped short, hovering hesitantly over the victim’s skin. The air suddenly felt thinner and he felt his chest tighten in response, heart beating a staccato rhythm against his ribs. His vision narrowed until all he could see was the victim’s pale skin and mentally he’s transported to another place, where he instantly knew the chill in the air and smell of dew on an early May morning. He didn’t know how long he stared, lost in a different time, until he heard Castiel mutter his name from behind him.
“Shit.” Dean spat out and broke away, running a hand roughly through his hair. He paced back and forth, agitated. “I can’t do this, Cas. What if I bring him back wrong? What if I end up killing everyone in the building? What if-”
“Dean.” And Dean can hear everything Cas wasn’t saying. Lightly, Cas placed his hand on Dean’s arm where the warmth of his body seeped through the sleeve of his jacket. When Dean looked up, he saw nothing but trust. He wasn’t alone. Not this time.
The gesture reassured Dean enough for him to rein in his nerves. He stepped back up to the body and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
When he glanced one last time over his shoulder, Castiel held up the stopwatch and nodded curtly. He eyed Dean’s hand closely, ready to start at the first touch.
The second his finger touched the cold, dry skin, the body flooded to life. Dean backed up as the victim drew in that first deep breath and opened him eyes. They flickered around briefly before settling on Dean.
“What the hell?” The victim asked, bewildered.
Dean shook his head, “Not quite there yet, buddy. We’re kind of like a pit stop. We just need to know what killed you.”
“Killed - what? Oh my god, I’m dead?!”
“Our condolence on the loss of your life.” Castiel interrupted from behind Dean.
Dean nodded distractedly, “Yeah, yeah, sorry about the shitty deal. Now tell us what killed you.”
But the victim’s too busy examining his stitches to answer the question. “Holy shit, they sliced me open. I’ve got like ridges of stitches on my skin. This is fucking insane.”
“Hey!” Dean said, “Death. You. How?”
“Ummm,” The victim tried to think back, obviously still distracted by the marks on his chest, picking at the stitches where they curve into his abdomen.
Getting frustrated, Dean snapped his fingers twice directly in front of his face. “Come on bud, eyes on me. We’re trying to avenge your death here. I need you to concentrate.”
“I think it was a ghost.” The guy scrunched up his face in a way that would have made Dean laugh if he wasn't freaking terrified and they weren’t running out of time.
“Ghost, okay, we can work with that.”
“Yeah. That was some seriously weird shit.” The victim frowned, glancing between the two of them. “So what’s going to happen now? Should I be heading toward the light or something? What should I do?”
Dean shrugged, hands held up in the classic ‘fuck if I know‘ position. At a loss of words, Dean glanced at Cas for help.
Cas nodded sagely, “God has plans for all of us.”
Dean made a face, “Seriously. That’s all you got? Look, the guy’s dead - no offence man,- so it’s not like he can go out and start a charity.”
But the victim ignored Dean and focused intently on Castiel. “What plans? Do I get to go to heaven?”
Unfortunately Castiel’s attention is already back on his stopwatch. “Dean. 10 seconds.” He said.
“Shit!” Dean shouted at the victim, “Quick, the ghost! Who was the ghost?”
“I’m not sure.. I turn around and it was dark."
“5”
“I couldn’t tell”
“4”
“I think it was..”
“3”
“My ex, Laura”
“2”
And Dean practically screeched “go towards the light!” before he nearly sprained his finger jabbing him again. The effect was instantaneous and the victim whipped stiff as a board and fell back to the metal table with a tremendous clang.
“1”
Castiel clicked on the stopwatch and pocketed it neatly, nodding at Dean.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean braced his hands against the metal slab, drawing deep breaths and trying to steady the racing of his heart. “Okay.” He said more to himself than anything else. “We’re okay.”
Castiel agreed and said quite earnestly. “I think that went very well.”
Dean just glared.
**
It was nice having two people to dig a grave again. Admittedly, it was a little bit of a gong-show, Castiel having never used a shovel before. And then after a certain depth, trying to co-ordinate the two of them shovelling in the grave was impossible, especially with the whole touch and die clause hanging over their heads. So they took turns, which didn’t make it any faster, but it was nice having someone to chat with.
“I’d forgotten.” Dean said wistfully, rolling the flint of his Zippo back and forth over his jeans, “What it was like, not hunting alone.” It was the middle of the night and the sky kept threatening to pour, but Dean’s got a buzz under his skin, like one too many cups of coffee. After the morgue, he was feeling almost drunk with relief. Dean flexed his free hand in front of him and stared at it, watching the shadows play across his tendons in the firelight.
“You know, when he was little, Sam used to bitch like crazy at me and my dad for desecrating graves.” Dean surprised himself by saying out loud. “He knew we had to do it, but they went on and on about how wrong it was in school and Sam was convinced he had to save our immortal souls. The little shit used to bring his rosary and light candles when we were done.” He laughed, somewhat bitterly and waited for the familiar clench that always seized his heart and is both surprised and oddly dismayed when that didn’t happen. The only feeling is a distant longing which he suspected would never go away.
Castiel heaved another shovel of dirt topside and paused, propped up on the handle. “You miss your brother.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean drawled. “Me and Sammy…” Dean trailed off. And there it was, that phantom pain that made his rub a hand roughly across his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I miss him.” He was relieved to have finally said it, like a weight had been lifted off his chest and it hadn’t swallowed him whole, this raw gaping hole inside of him.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle in the distance, and a change in the air. Dean perked up. “Heads up,” he warned Castiel, “We got incoming.”
Castiel returned to digging with a renewed vigour while Dean scanned the graveyard. Without warning, an invisible force lifted Dean from his feet and sent him tumbling into the grave marker. He scrambled for footing again, swearing loudly.
“Dean!” Castiel called out and threw the box of salt at him. He snatched it out of the air and scattered it in the direction he came from. From the grave, he could see Castiel scraping the last of the dirt from the surface of the coffin. The air behind him displaced and the spirit appeared, arms raised and poised to attack.
Dean drove for the crowbar they had left next to the can of gasoline and screamed for Castiel to duck. When he dropped to the floor, Dean flung it into the grave, catching the spirit across the body and causing it to dissipate.
“Get out!” Dean yelled and leapt into the hole as soon as Castiel scrambled out. He grabbed the shovel Castiel left behind, reared up then heaved down hard, driving the tip of the shovel through the rotten wood of the coffin. Without turning, he caught the gasoline can and salt Castiel tossed him and upended them both onto the bones. His Zippo’s disappeared into the grass beyond where the spirit threw him, but Dean had a spare book of matches in his pocket. He didn’t bother pull up a match, just tore off the cover, ripped the book up the seam of his jeans and threw it down.
The coffin lit up with a faint whoosh, causing Dean to back up against the edge. He pulled himself out of the grave and onto the grass, dropping the shovel next to him and flopping over to lay on his back. He grinned at Castiel. He definitely counted this as a success. Despite all the craziness, neither of them have a concussion to show for it.
The girlfriend’s salted and burned, and they can finally wash their hands of this case. Dean sighed, inproportionally relieved that the hunt was over.
Castiel leaned over Dean, the rest of the supplies already collected in his hands. He offered a faint smile in return, and while it still looked a little strange on his face, Dean’s starting to get used to it.
Dean was perfectly content to lay on the grass. He opened his mouth to comment when the sky finally decided to open up and it started to pour.
Startled, Castiel automatically called up a thread of his grace, snapping a shield over their heads, and relieved when it didn’t send a shooting pain through his head. Around the invisible barrier, the rain curved down in little rivets through the air.
Dean sucked in a lungful of the fresh moisture laden air, felt the charge of the lighting as it forked through the sky, and grinned at Cas, the relief and adrenaline of the hunt melting into a barely contained giddiness.
And then maybe he should to take back the part he said about them not getting hit in the head, because as the thunder started to crack overhead, Dean was inexplicably seized with glee and he jumped up, hollering "Race you back to the car."
As Castiel looked on in bewilderment, Dean took off from under the barrier and into the downpour as the thunder cracked loudly enough to shake the ground. He flung his arms wide into the air and his shovel almost took the head off of a nearby monument as his long strides ate up the ground.
Castiel followed at a slower pace, and curious, he stepped out from his invisible shield and let it disappear behind him. Immediately, the wind and rain hit him, billowing in from the side and whipping his trench coat up and open, cracking out to the side in a pathetic mimic of his lost wings.
It soaked him to the bone in seconds and by the time he reached the car, Dean was already inside, the car started, and the light inside welcoming. Castiel climbed into the backseat, water dripping from every pore and stared at Dean. “That was unpleasant.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out someday.” Dean assured him, laughter in his eyes. Water glints off his lashes like a beacon and Castiel fixed on it, perplexed. Then Dean shook his head vigorously, spraying droplets everywhere. He wiped the water from his hands the best he could with the hem of his shirt, which was pretty ineffectual, but he didn‘t seem to mind. "Good to go?”
Cas spared a glance back at the graveyard and could almost make it out through the sheets of rain. He thought of the people they helped save today and allowed himself a small glow of satisfaction. “We’re good.”
*
They got back late and trudge, sopping wet and exhausted, into the hotel room. Earlier energy gone, Dean can’t even be bothered to take off his clothes before he collapsed onto the bed. He figured he could sleep on the other side tonight.
He turned his head to watch Cas, who was gingerly perched on the end of his mattress. Drops of water were still sliding down the back of his neck to disappear into his coat. A coat which, Dean noted with a frown, had definitely seen better days.
He pulled himself upright. “Hey, take off your coat.”
“Why?“ Castiel watched as Dean dug through his duffel. “No one is wounded.”
Dean stopped sorting though the needles in his sewing kit to stare incredulously at Castiel. “You know, sometimes I don’t know if I should laugh at you, or just cry at the sad excuse that is my life.”
“Crying will do nothing to change your life.” Castiel recited but still hadn’t taken off his trench coat. If anything, he’d drawn it around himself tighter.
It amused Dean to no end how someone with no understanding of the human race can be so attached to a coat. He brandished the thread and needle he pulled out. “Relax. I’m not getting rid of it, I’m just sewing up the rips. I didn’t know that angelic powers had included tailoring but it’s looking like you’re pretty lost without it. Seriously, you look like a hobo in that.”
“I did not think that my appearance would matter to you”
Dean made a face. “It doesn‘t. But I swear I saw someone try to give you money the other day.”
“It was very noble of her to attempt to help those less fortunate.” Castiel said solemnly but his smile is unexpectedly wry.
Dean laughed, surprising himself with the way it took him, the easy tug of seldom used muscles in his face. He surprised himself more when he realized the levity wasn’t overshadowed with the bitterness that had come with everything since Sam‘s death. He shook his head fondly at Cas. “Just give me the damn thing.”
**
Finally, they get a hit on Lucifer.
Lucifer is in, of all places, Detroit. Dean privately thought that was a bit of a letdown. He can think of plenty of places more hellish than Detroit. Cleveland for one. Or Toledo. Dean shuddered. Freaking Toledo.
The air was almost relieved as they packed the Impala. All these months of stumbling around in the dark, they finally have something they can sink their teeth into. Dean slammed the trunk shut with an air of finality, one hand rested on the sun-warmed metal as he looked over at Cas. “This is a really stupid plan.”
Castiel shrugged. “It should suffice for our needs.”
“Yeah, but I just thought I’d point out that it is in fact, a retarded plan.”
Castiel huffed a laugh. “It seemed pretty simple. If I keep killing, and you can keep up with that magic touch of yours, I’m sure the cosmos will eventually strike down Lucifer.”
“That is one pretty big maybe.”
“Have you a better plan?”
“For you and me against the legions of heaven and hell? Not one that doesn’t involve an army that we don‘t have. And possibly a couple of rocket launchers. Maybe an X-men or two.”
Castiel shook his head indulgently as he opened the door to get in the backseat. He made to get in, but Dean just tossed their bags through the door and jerked his head towards the front seat. Cas paused, but Dean pretended not to notice, dropping into the driver’s seat and starting the car.
Castiel took the moment to glance back at the motel room. Room 23 of the Motel 8 is on the outskirts of Modesto, California. It had crappy water pressure, lumpy beds, and questionable stains on the floor. The walls made creaking sounds when the neighbours got enthusiastic at night. Compared to the majesty of Heaven, actually compared to most places, the motel was a dump, but Castiel couldn’t stop the smile that stole across his face.
Dean leaned over the console. “You coming or not?”
“Of course.” Cas replied with a quick twitch of his lips.
Striving for the same nonchalance, Cas climbed into the passenger side. As he settled, he felt a flicker in his chest, lifting like the fizzy drinks that Dean liked so much. He sneaked a look at Dean, who’s gripped two-handed on the steering wheel, eyes resolutely forward. “We really doing this?”
Flipping through his box of cassettes, Castiel picked one and fed it into the dash. “Yeah, we are.”
Dean took a deep breath. “Ok. Onward Christian soldier, and all that crap.”
“Dean.” Castiel said, but warmly and when Dean turned to Castiel in the passenger seat, he saw the small gleam in his eyes. “Don’t forget to open the windows.”
Dean laughed, tension falling from his shoulders. He stepped on the gas and they take off, music cranked and wind whipping around. Cas all but threw his head out the window and closed his eyes and Dean’s just waiting for him to stick his tongue out and start panting. He nearly doubled over, laughing until his stomach hurt, barely keeping his hands on the steering wheel. His deadly hands, Dean remembered, and the thought was sobering. But maybe, he glanced at Castiel, maybe life as well. Life and redemption and seconds chances. Dean could definitely live with that.
So steadily, the Hunter and his Angel made their way towards Detroit. To Detroit, to Lucifer, and to what could possibly be the end of all days. Accompanied only by the rumble of the engine and the rhythmic churn of the tires, they fly across the blacktop.
~fin~